Ride the Mongoose
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: "Ride the Mongoose. What does that even mean? Well, if it means escaping from Covies, staying away from that Spartan freak and getting the girl, then I'm all for it. Oh, and, you know, staying alive."


**Ride the Mongoose**

"Always knew men couldn't drive."

"Yeah, well, until you've taken up the Warthog's gunner position, you're in no position to complain."

"I dunno. Complaining's therapeutic."

Thomas Lasky grinned, though whether Silva saw it in the gloom was unknown. She had a point, he supposed. Complaining _was _therapeutic. So was whining, bitching or even the simple act of letting out expletives. Yet he decided against it. He wasn't wounded, so he couldn't swear. He wasn't in a situation any different from the rest of his fellow cadets, so he couldn't bitch. And if he wanted to complain…well, Silva already had that in the bag. Sort of.

"Fine," the cadet said. "My driving sucks. But when you take the wheel with flying machines of death all around you, let me know how it feels."

"Alright, I will," she answered. "Provided I get a chance to do it."

Lasky remained silent. He didn't want to think about that possibility.

Things were moving too fast, Lasky reflected. A few months ago, he'd arrived at Corbulo Academy, ready to help the UNSC in its defence against the Insurrection-a suppression of genuine grievances as he came to realize. A few days ago, he'd decided he wanted out, not wanting to be part of some iron-fisted empire content to let people die by the millions so it could hang onto its territory. A few hours ago, he and every other poor sod had discovered that there were things far worse than the UNSC in this galaxy. Aliens, more aliens, and power armoured soldiers who, if the one that had manned the Warthog's gun was any indication, seemed intent on keeping verbal communication to a minimum.

_Right, right…_Lasky thought. _Aliens want to kill you, and you're worried about the guy who saved you from them._

Slowly, the cadet shifted away from Silva-the whole proximity for the sake of body heat was bogus anyway, and considering the situation he and his fellow cadets was in, he doubted that fraternization would be high on the list of anyone's priorities. He remained close, but stuck his head out from the tree, watching the man…thing…accessorise everything from sub-machine guns to a rocket launcher. He wanted to say something. Ask something. Anything from "thanks to saving our lives" to "what the hell are you, you armoured, seven foot freak?"

"You think there's more of him?"

Lasky turned back to Silva, seeing that her gaze had followed his to their saviour. "What?"

"More people like him," she said. "I mean…did you see the one-one-seven mark on his armour? Got to me more, right?"

Lasky remained silent. It was a comforting thought on one hand, the notion of 116 other super-soldiers bringing death to the aliens that had attacked recently. On the other hand, he was in the proximity of a being that could probably break his neck with his pinkie. A being that could still fire straight from a LAAG while he was struggling to drive a Warthog through a forest.

_Bloody cockblocker…_

Lasky shook his head. Adrenalin, that was it. His body was adjusting to the blissful status of not having to evade plasma, and it was getting to his head. He could take being a small fish in a large pond. It wasn't as if someone could be attracted to Mr. 117, even if his armour _did _have a visible codpiece.

_Who's looking?_

"You know what, we need more vehicles," he said out loud. He needed to hear his voice rather than his thoughts.

"What?" Silva asked.

"More vehicles," Lasky repeated. "We can't all fit in a Warthog, it's only meant for three, and the guy's so heavy he probably counts as two men anyway."

"Or _women_."

"Whatever. Point is, it would be great to get some tires. Even a Mongoose or something. Easier to drive, fits two people…"

He trailed off. He looked at Silva. She looked back at him. God, this was embarrassing. Aliens above, freaks below, and in the middle of all, the brain in the lower part of his body was doing his thinking…and _talking _for him.

It stopped talking altogether when she kissed him.

"Lasky, you drive the Warthog straight next time…and I'll let you ride my Mongoose all you want."

Lasky blinked. Then smiled.

Maybe the situation wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

_A/N_

_The idea for this came from a behind the scenes look at _Forward Unto Dawn_, discussing the driving/riding of the Warthog with one of the female cast members. Somehow I translated this into an idea for sexual innuendo. 0_0_

_(Blame rule 34.)_


End file.
